


The Thoughts of a Depressed Genius

by maggmac



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Depression, Drug Use, Oblivious John, One Shot, Pining Sherlock, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Unrequited Love, sorry i just gave it all away
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-26 17:37:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1696721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maggmac/pseuds/maggmac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As John moves on in his life, Sherlock is left behind and unable to cope with his unrequited feelings. This is his attempt at dealing with it.<br/>It doesn't work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Thoughts of a Depressed Genius

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at writing and posting fanfiction.  
> Not even sort of beta'd sorry

I am pulled out of my state of mental suspension by the erotic moaning coming from my phone. I never did get around to changing that. Oh well.

The text is probably from Lestrade, begging me to assist him in solving an astonishingly easy case. I have no interest in such simple puzzles. He doesn’t deserve my help.

Also I don’t want to get up.

The last time I managed to move from the couch was four days ago when Mrs. Hudson came up and tried to coax some food into me while also lamenting the state of the flat.

“What a mess, Sherlock, what on earth have you been doing in the kitchen? And you look like you haven’t eaten in days.”

As usual, I had let her nagging wash over me as I concentrated on not thinking. Which is the opposite of my usual goal but at that moment my thoughts were causing more harm than was bearable. I kept wondering why I didn’t just take out that box of cocaine I kept around for emergency purposes. Sentiment, it seemed, remnants of my promise to John and Lestrade not to. Ridiculous, really.

Finally Mrs. Hudson left, but not before she left a cup of tea on the coffee table. It just so happened that I hadn’t had anything to drink in days and my primitive bodily urges were overwhelming. I drank it all.

That was four days ago. I had last eaten six days ago, a raisin found between the couch cushions. My last contact with John - a text ‘Got any cases?’ ‘No. SH’ - was two weeks ago and the last case was twice that. I know I should do something, eat something, solve something, but I can’t summon the energy, don’t want to. 

I turn to my favorite pastime: If Only. If only I had been a better flatmate, if only I hadn’t left for two years, if only I had told him… No. It is a stupid game and I am acting like a teenage girl. I need something to distract myself.

The only thing within reach is my cocaine, which usually makes my thinking sharper, which was not what I had in mind, but at the moment I just need something to do. I pull it out from under the couch, get everything set up, and am just about to inject it when Lestrade decides to fling open the door - how did he even get up the stairs without me noticing? - and walk in.

*

I am brought downstairs - practically carried, really, as I am pretty much unable to walk - and pushed into the backseat.

The ride to the Yard consists of a stony silence; I can almost feel Lestrade’s anger and disappointment. Disappointment that I was weak and couldn’t resist the drug. 

How pathetic my willpower is. I’m surprised I’d lasted this long without turning to it.

He pulls me down the hallway past all the surprised yet smug faces - Donovan looked as though it were Christmas - and into his office. I sit down.

“What the hell were you thinking, Sherlock? You promised me you were clean,” Lestrade chastises in a much more restrained tone than I had expected. I don’t reply, but tilt my head down in a way I hope will be perceived as embarrassed and regretful. 

“Don’t even try. I know you don’t care. Now, I’ve let you break enough rules but this is it. I’m keeping you here for the next few days as a punishment and so I can go get all that shit out of your flat.” Wait, what? Yeah, that wasn’t going to happen.

* 

It ends up being that I have no say in the matter and they will lock me up in a temporary cell and force-feed me dull cold cases. Donovan and a few other officers were sent to clean up my flat. Lestrade, in a sheer act of sadism, decides to call John and alert him to my most recent doings. Upon learning this, had I the power, Lestrade would’ve been obliterated where he stood.

John shows up in a little under an hour. He had clearly just been in a fight with his wife. I decide not to mention it, he seems furious enough as it is.   
He doesn’t even bother with a greeting. “What’s this about the drugs, Sherlock, are you kidding me? Could you really not find any other way to entertain yourself? I just - you hardly ever answer my texts anymore, so I’ve been trusting you and believing that you have been doing fine. Now Lestrade calls me and says you’re in jail of all places and I see that you look like absolute shit and have been using again. What the hell is going on with you?”

I don’t reply. He wouldn’t like the answer. I miss you. More than you could ever know. I miss you with my entire being. I ache with the knowledge that you aren’t there and never will be. I want to wrap him up, carry him home, and consume him with my entire being so that he can never leave me again. I want to destroy his mind, crush it to a pulp, and build it back up with no thoughts of Mary or of settling down or of babies. I want to collapse at his feet, sob, grovel, plead with all my being, have him feed me and take care of me. I want soldier John, doctor John, John in all his infinite forms. But I can’t have him. My heart feels like a black hole. I can’t have John, so I am collapsing in on myself and will soon be reduced to nothing. I am disintegrating and soon my pieces will be blown away by the wind, lost and forgotten.

Obviously I can’t tell John of this. He would find it a Bit Not Good. He has Mary, and The Baby, and a House in a Neighborhood with a Nice Job and no life-threatening situations that could destroy any of it. I am second-hand, a stepping stone from Afghanistan to the suburbs, a transition easily forgotten. I know this. I have known this for months. Yet for some reason I can’t let go.

John sighs. He changes the subject. “How about something to eat, then, hm? It looks like it’s been a while.”

So he’s not totally oblivious to things right in front of his face. No matter, though. “Transport, John.”

“Right, well, if you don’t take care of your transport you won’t survive. Can’t have that.” Yes we can. The thought passes, unbidden, through my mind. 

I turn away from him. I don’t want to see his judging eyes on my weak, pathetic frame. If he leaves then I don’t have to think about him. 

He doesn’t leave. “Sherlock.” I like it when he says my name. “Talk to me. Why?” And goddammit, I am out of control. I stand up, stare him down, and spit out,

“Maybe you’d know if you were actually around instead of always with Mary, Mary, Mary, even though Mary shot me and left me to die you still went with her!” Shit.

John’s eyes grow wide. Shit. I drop into the corner of the cell with my back to him. He stands there for a long moment, breath audible in the silent jail hall, and then turns and leaves without another word. I know it will be the last I see of him. I try to ignore the pang that goes through me at that.

*

Days pass. I return home. They tried to be subtle, but I can feel the Yard’s presence everywhere. 

They fed me during my time there. I wonder how long it will take to starve.

Before long my arms are covered in red stripes. I shower. It stings.

All of my experiments have rotted, and the kitchen smells unbearable. I don’t go in it.

Mrs. Hudson doesn’t bother coming up anymore. I didn’t talk to her at all and never ate the food she left out of desperate hope.

Mycroft stops by. He tries not to show it, but I can see the concern etched into his face. I ignore him while he talks at me. He doesn’t stop by again. He knows I have chosen and am committed to my fate.

Since I am often unable to sleep, I am left thinking about John, however painful it may be. I think about his wife. His child. His house. He has everything he has ever wanted, everything I could never provide for him. 

He is probably happy. He is probably not thinking about me. My heart hurts. I tell myself to stop thinking about him. It doesn’t work.

*

Eventually I get to be practically all bones. Without John I don’t remember to eat. Without John I am so caught up in grieving that I don’t notice the physical signs that cue me to eat. Without John I wither away to almost nothing. 

Withering away is painful. I relish it.

I decide to send one last text to John, ‘I am glad you are happy.’ It is cheesy, unable to convey all I mean, but true. Despite the constant ache in my heart, I knew I could never satisfy John and it was enough merely to see him live out his life joyously. 

He consumed my life, my soul, owned me in all ways possible, and never knew. I wish I could tell him, but I suppose it’s too late.

My last thought is of him.


End file.
